


your mess is mine

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis and harry end up as roommates by a stroke of fate and things go better than either of them expected</p>
            </blockquote>





	your mess is mine

“Louis it’s not going to be that fucking bad.” 

The voice comes mumbled from behind a stack of cardboard boxes labeled with an assortment of vague titles: _SHIT_ , _CLOTHES_ , _MORE CLOTHES/FOOTBALLS_. There are too many in the small room, each filled with memories and obscure objects pulled out from every crevice of the space that Louis just can’t bear to part with.

“This guy could be a murderer, Zayn, you don’t know. I could walk in to him sitting around a pentagram mumbling praises to fucking _Satan_ ,” Louis groans. 

He’s laying spread eagle on the bare mattress, looking up at the ceiling that he’s known for twenty years and won’t see again for a while. His hair has fallen into his eyes now, partly blocking his vision, but he can’t get himself to tear his gaze away. The longer he stares at it the better he figures he’ll be able to picture it when he tries to fall asleep for the first time in his new flat that’s in _London_ of all places.

“Stop being a little shit about this. We found this guy through Niall so if anything he’s just as loud and obnoxious as the blonde himself, unless Niall gets into some illicit business that we don’t know about.” Zayn’s not taking anything from Louis. He never does really, but he’s being especially hard on him today which Louis thinks is completely unfair. He should be allowed to stress about moving three hours away from home when he’s only been a twenty year old for eight months.

“I’m not being a little shit I’m just scared and you should be comforting me in my time of need,” Louis complains. “Not everyone is already accustomed to the Londoner lifestyle like you, dear Zaynie.”

“Do you want some basic advice then?” Zayn sits down beside him now as Louis nods his head yes. “Alright— avoid making any eye contact on the tube, don’t blast your music loud enough for anyone around you to hear, and don’t walk down shady streets alone. But I have enough faith that you wouldn’t do those things anyways.”

It's true. Some things may fly over Louis' head sometimes, maybe he's a bit of an idiot, but one thing he deserves credit for is his street skills. Enough films and trips to big cities for football matches have built up his knowledge of what to do in any situation thrown at him. So in conclusion, he's certain that he won't get himself robbed or beat up over one naive mistake in the big city.

“Thanks for the reassuring words,” Louis hums. 

They’ve been packing for hours into the morning now, the lone clock resting on his empty mattress reading _11:27am_. This Great Move is beginning to take a toll on him already. He’s been on the brink of falling asleep a multitude of times now and with all of his things basically packed into a slightly over-average amount of bags and boxes, he sees no reason why he can’t take a little break.

There’s something eating at him though. 

“I feel like I should say a proper goodbye to Eleanor but then again I don’t really feel up for it.” Zayn gives him a look now. Not a look, but _the_ look, the one he gives Louis when Louis says something that isn’t up to his smartness standards. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m going to look at you like this until you stop being a dumbass,” Zayn bites. The statement practically nips at Louis’ side. 

“What am I supposed to do then, Z?” Louis asks, irritated with the path this conversation is quickly taking. 

“That’s not my place to decide,” Zayn shrugs. “If you see nothing wrong, I won’t be the one to put thoughts in your head. I’m just an innocent bystander in this whole little fiasco.”

“It’s not a _fiasco_ it’s a _relationship_.” There’s no point in arguing anymore, he figures. Getting defensive over everything won’t get him anywhere fast. “Can I take a nap?”

He hears Zayn mumble out some smart response and waves his hand around before curling up on the sheetless bed and drifting off with thoughts of serial killers and unrealistic fantasies of the London life.

-

When he awakes from his nap a good half hour later, he drags himself downstairs to say his final goodbyes. All of his sisters, young and old, give him tight hugs, some lasting longer than others but all radiating love nonetheless. His mum is the worst, tearing up and sniffling into his shoulder like she’ll never get the chance to see him again. 

He tries to reassure her that he’ll visit in a few weeks and he’ll Skype as much as possible but it doesn’t seem to be enough to satisfy her motherly needs. He understands though. Being her first born, he’s been with her through everything and they’ve got a special bond that none of his siblings quite have. It’ll be hard to leave her himself, but he’s staying strong at the moment to the best of his abilities.

Eleanor stops by quickly too, surprising Louis when she sneaks behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. He leans back into her for a second, breathing in the sweet smell of the expensive perfume he vaguely remembers buying her for their anniversary, but then he gently squirms out of her grasp a moment later. She doesn’t seem bothered, just smiles at him with a saddened look.

“I’ll miss you,” she pouts, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. 

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too babe,” Louis smiles in response, looking off at the twins fighting over a doll in the background. “We’ve really gotta get going though, so-”

“Oh, yeah I guess part of me figured as much,” she interrupts. Her thin arms fall loosely back down to her sides. “I just wanted to see you before I head off to my class. I guess it was wishful thinking to assume that you’d have enough time for a long, proper goodbye.”

The tone in which she says it makes Louis feel a bit bad. It’s not that he regrets not saying goodbye to her earlier exactly, more of the fact that he doesn’t feel half as disappointed as she does about the whole situation. He pushes it aside with the assurance that it’s just his nerves getting in the way of everything else.

“Sorry,” Louis frowns. “I wasn’t thinking about how much time I’d have to speak to anyone but my mum and sisters before I left. My head’s a bit of a swirling mess right now.”

“It’s fine, darling, I would be an outright mess if I were in your position,” she laughs lightly. “Can I at least have one last kiss?”

She gets one of course, a chaste peck to the lips with nothing truly romantic behind it but enough to satisfy them both. With a few more exchanged words and a warm hug, she leaves the house once again, leaving Zayn and Louis standing in the foyer by themselves finally.

“So should we pack up and set out now?” Zayn asks him as if Louis actually has a choice to say no. 

Together they grudgingly drag everything out of the house and out to his car. It proves to be quite a feat trying to stuff so many containers into the confinement of his tiny Porsche but they get there in the end, his and Zayn’s bodies having to be pressed as close as possible to the dashboard to fit it all.

Once he’s double-checked that nothing’s been left behind, Louis yells out one last line to the household and then pulls the door shut behind him. Hopping into the car and clicking the seatbelt down feels like a metaphor almost. It’s like the actions stand for something greater, something that Louis can’t wrap his mind around at the moment. 

“You’re free,” Zayn grins at him from the passenger seat and yeah. That basically sums it all up to a single point.

He’s free.

-

Harry didn’t realize how many headscarves he actually had until today. They take up an entire bag all on their own, the medley of colors pretty much drowning his little stuffed giraffe, George. He physically has to shove them into the bag, and then the bag into his suitcase that's already bursting with his jeans and the like. And then he has to get _that_ closed. It’s all very eventful and his sister refuses to help.

His room is pretty much packed up, except for the posters and stickers and various mementos on his walls. His mum insisted on buying him new sheets and such for his new flat, and so his childhood bedroom remains looking lived in. His laptop and books and things are all in a few boxes and a few suitcases that he's slowly but surely packing into his clunky red truck. (Which he hates; wishes he had a rich boyfriend who drove, like, a Porsche or something.) 

Leaving is bittersweet, is what it is. He's got a strange sense of loss, because he's leaving behind the only thing he's never known; at the same time this a new beginning for him. This is it, the start of the rest of his life. It all begins here, with this new freedom.

And like, this is _London,_ this is what he's been dreaming of for so long. Sure he's going to be going to Uni for useless classes, but in the big city, he can start chasing his actual dream. It's a bit naïve, he knows, but it's more a chance than he'll ever get in this shoebox of a town.

"Mum! I'm all ready!"

He's standing in the driveway next to his filled-to-the-brim truck, and his mother must think it looks like a cliché monumental moment because she doesn't move to hug him until she's snapped a photo.

Harry wraps around his mother easily. "My baby boy," she's crying, as expected, "All grown up. Moving to the other side of the bloody planet."

"S'only three hours away, I'll be here every other weekend most likely." He laughs, trying to stop the lump in his own throat from producing tears he'd rather not shed.

"Doesn't mean I won't miss you when you're gone."

 Which- okay, fair enough. But, "Empty Nest Syndrome at it's finest."

It makes her laugh, at least, and he's able to detach her from him, hug his sister goodbye and make it halfway down the street before it all becomes very real.

He distracts himself with his 'On the Road' playlist and fleeting thoughts about what his new roommate is going to be like. He's never lived with anyone besides his family before, didn't have many sleepovers as a child; this is all very unfamiliar territory. He comforts himself with the knowledge that Niall is reliable in his acquaintance department, seeing as he’s not been arrested (yet), even with a year and a half of living in the party scene in the heart of London.

And that’s where Niall met Zayn, the guy who knows a guy who’s hooked them up with an affordable flat, the only condition being he has to share it with Zayn’s friend. Which brings Harry back to his current issue- _who’s he going to be living with?_

He ponders the possibilities much too deeply, probably, scenarios ranging from _I might fall in love_ to _I might need therapy after two weeks with the guy_. 

-

The car ride goes by faster than he'd calculated and he ends up at the flat half an hour early.

He stares at the name on the crumpled sticky note until he's sure he's at the right address and closes his eyes, and rings a random flat. The name _Payne, Liam_ seems the least likely to be an old woman and he hopes the local Uni being just a few blocks away vouches for his theory.

A warm voice rumbles through the voice box above the bells.

"Who's there?" He sounds nice enough.

"Hi!" Harry clears his throat. "Hi. I, um, I'm supposed to be moving in today, and I haven't got a key to the building yet would you mind ringing me in?"

There's a long silence, and Harry realizes his voice is deep and shaky enough to cause suspicion.

"I'm a friend of Zayn's?"

"Oh! Are you the friend of a friend? The one that's moving in with Tommo?"

Tommo? Louis... _Tom_ linson? _Is that...?_ And now Harry's starting to sweat, wondering why today had to be the hottest day in England history of like, ever. 

"That's the one." Liam doesn't respond. "Could you.. um?"

"Shit! Yeah, go on in."

Then the doors are buzzing and Harry's tumbling headfirst into the (thankfully) air conditioned vestibule.

The first thing he notices is that the elevator is broken; yellow tape covers the door and he instantly regrets deciding to heave in his heaviest suitcase first. There's no going back now, though, and so he heads for the stairs, succumbing to the fact that it's just going to be one of those days.

Four flights of stairs and a near asthma attack later, Harry makes it to his new flat. The door is quite dull, and when he pushes through the already open door, he pleasantly finds that the living space, already equipped with a couch (an old, dusty couch with quite a bit of dog fur on it, but a couch nonetheless), and a side table with a _lamp_ on it. Harry loves free lamps.

His first line of inspection is the kitchen, and finds it to his liking. Lots of cooking to be done in there. Lots of food he needs to buy. There's a kettle, and he figures he might as well make a good impression when his roommate shows up and puts water to boil.

Harry ventures down the hallway leading to three bedrooms and a bathroom and a quite convenient closet, feeling lost at the lack of photographs and decorations and knick-knacks that most houses have. It all feels so _empty_ and so he makes a silent promise to spice it up as much as possible.

Then Harry makes it to the bedrooms, thriving off the first-come-first-served rule and takes the larger one for himself. The walls are painted a bright cerulean blue, with a chestnut colored desk sitting sadly in a far corner. The bed frame is queen-sized, missing a mattress, and then he hears a loud crash.

He pokes his head through the threshold of his newly claimed bedroom, thinking of the irony of someone breaking into his flat before he's even moved in.

"Hello?" Stupidly, his heart stars race. "Who's there?"

There's another bump and a crash before a voice calls out, "It's Louis! I got a little... lost."

Harry ventures out onto the scene of crime, finding his beloved lamp of ten minutes smashed into pieces. Aside from that, there's a boy with piercing blue in his living room that are staring straight into his soul and reading through his deepest secrets. (At least, that’s what it feels like.)

"Hi. You broke the lamp." He looks Louis up and down from his beanie-clad head to the Vans on his feet, not even close to expecting the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah. Oops. It was horrendous anyways, so you should be thanking me,” Louis grins sharply. 

Harry swears he sees six weeks into the future just then. The crumbs are inevitable. He clears his throat. "Um, d'you need any help?" He gestures to the two giant suitcases by Louis' sides, wondering how the hell he pulled them up the steps. He's not even out of breath. "Must've been a rough one up all those stairs. Just my one nearly killed me."

"Think I'm alright at the moment, mate. And props for your dedication to physical activity, but sadly even with my love football, I'm not one to choose stairs over a perfectly good elevator," Louis announces in a near teasing way. "The inside of it's even got a mirror! Cracked all across but classy nonetheless."

Harry thinks if he ever wrote an autobiography of his life, this would be the first chapter.

"Well, I've still got a truckload of shit that I'm really not up to unloading just yet." He kicks absently at the wall he's got his shoulder on. "Just gonna sit and watch the telly if that's alright." He doesn't know why he's asking permission, but there's something about this boy's personality that takes up half the room and he feels inferior, somehow.

"Do what you want, this _is_ half your flat," Louis notes, subtly emphasizing that Harry only owns _half_. "I've got things to get up here too. Zayn's bringing up the first load of it right now so when he drops that off I'll follow him back down to grab the last bit, bid him a farewell then head up here with you again. We can bond before you see how much of a hopeless flat mate I am."

Harry makes a gallant effort to smile as genuinely as he can, and it turns out to be quite easy. "I'll be here." He emphasizes where with an unceremonious collapsing onto the sofa. It lets out more dust that he'd been prepared for.

-

In a relieving turn of events, Harry isn't a dangerous figure. He's actually quite the charmer, nice and everything if just a bit more subdued than Louis himself. 

They haven't gotten much of a chance to 'bond' yet to his slight dismay. With all of the heavy box carrying Louis had been doing, when Zayn left he couldn't do anything but drop down on the empty sofa cushion beside Harry and fall asleep. Harry had the decency to advise Louis not to lay his head down on the dirty fabric. He groaned, but heeded the advice and rested his head on Harry's thigh, pulling a small chuckle from the boy who let out a quiet, "Or that's an option too."

When he wakes again later in the day, there's a crick in his neck and a thin blanket spread on top of him. His eyes take a minute to blearily adjust to the light shining through the windows, but when they do he quickly notices the abundance of color in the flat. More specifically, the newly found decorations scattered in random places around him.

There are personal pictures sitting on the windowsill, other framed photographs and artworks scattered along each wall. Louis takes a particular interest in the poster covered with a pattern of crudely drawn penises, the middle one fully supplied with hair and 'my pen is huge' written across it. Suffice to say he'll never outgrow his immature penchant for penis jokes.

Overall, the flat looks very Harry-like at the moment. Not that it's a bad thing though. It gives Louis a minimal insight into Harry's personality without actually talking to him which is cool. It's just that it needs to be Louis-like too because penises are humorous, but football kits and a few photos of his family are much needed.

"Good afternoon," a voice sings out, followed closely by footsteps.

"Afternoon, penis boy," Louis sighs lazily. Harry looks confused and slightly offended so he points at the drawing for clarification. "I like your taste in art. Oh, and thanks for the blanket by the way."

Harry blushes, "Yeah. I like it cold and you looked a little... cold. So. Yeah." He holds up the two plates in his hands. "I made food, by the way. Um, sort of. We haven't exactly got a chef's choice what with the lack of ingredients but I packed some pancake stuff. Hope you like them."

Then once he's sat up, a plate of pancakes is being ceremoniously sat down on his lap. For what their kitchen looks like, they look light and fluffy enough to pass for something a real chef could make. It's incredible. And after sticking a forkful in his mouth, Louis decides Harry will be a great surrogate mum for the one he left back in Doncaster. 

"These are fuckin' deli'ous," he mumbles from around a mouthful of the cakes. Best for Harry to learn of his lack of etiquette sooner rather than later.

Harry stares at a spot where a coffee table should be. "Thanks, can't really go wrong with pancakes, can you?"

Louis smiles brightly, white powder coating his lips and the surrounding area. "You can if they're made by me. Terrible cook. It's probably a good thing you've got skills so we won't have to live off of macaroni and microwaveable chicken nuggets."

Harry laughs, and it rings loud in the quiet sitting between them afterwards. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

-

It’s Louis that suggests it.

They’ve only been living together for less than two days and Harry agrees that yes, it would be good bonding time and yes, they need proper food in their fridge. So he agrees to a full on shopping trip to the grocery store just down the street. It's quite convenient, so after their lunch of a previously half-eaten bag of crisps and capri-suns, they trudge down to the shop in their pajamas. 

Harry sets to work right away, wheeling the cart down the aisles and picking out familiar items and necessities that he got used to seeing back at his mum's. He's searching for the right brand of bread when he notices his roommate is nowhere in sight.

"Louis?" he calls behind him.

Louis' response comes muffled from about two aisles over.

"Where are you?" 

The boy emerges some thirty seconds later, his arms packed with what looks like the most unhealthy things he could get his hands on. 

"What's all this?" Harry asks, eyeing the crisps and cookies warily.

Louis glances down at the goods bunched in his arms and smiles brightly, eyes nearly squeezed shut with the force of it. “Food!” He exclaims louder than necessary. “Doritos for when I play FIFA, Oreos for midnight snacks, and then a bunch of other shit that sounds _really_ good.”

"If diabetes is your idea of good, then by all means. But like," Harry side-eyes his nearly full cart that's overflowing with veggies and fruits and fat free snacks, "We shouldn't spend _all_ of our money and... overstock." Harry's a little too sensible sometimes, he'll admit it.

“Oh come on, you’re telling me that we’re going to live off of that cart full of blandness,” Louis frowns. “Besides, I work at that fancy restaurant on Berners, I’m sure I can afford for us to splurge on some extra necessities.”

Harry doesn't know what restaurant he's talking about, so he just snorts. "So long as you use the term 'necessities' loosely." He continues to search for the aforementioned bread, hearing Louis’ footsteps through the silence. “So, about that ‘bonding.’ Do you wanna play twenty questions or just, y’know, talk.”

“In the middle of the market?” Louis asks incredulously. He doesn’t sound _completely_ opposed to the idea, though.

Harry supposes he’ll just have to get used to the dry wit that just seems to constantly be emanating off of this man-child.

"Yes, in the middle of the market," he deadpans. "I mean, we could always go to that side of the market. If you prefer." It's a terrible joke, but what's so wrong about talking in the middle of an empty supermarket, honestly.

"Ooh look who's getting cheeky already!" Louis grins. One of his arms reaches out to pinch at Harry's cheek but the taller boy backs away before the attempt can succeed. "Rude," he huffs, "Now on with this game then, Curly."

"Right, so," he thinks hard, because this has to be interesting as well as beneficial to his knowing Louis as a person. "What's your favorite color?"

Louis laughs at him, of course he does, but he doesn't necessarily think it's a bad thing. He pouts anyway. "S'important. Don't laugh."

“Yeah, yeah, of course it is,” Louis amends. He blows out a puff of air before responding. “Red.”

Harry considers it; it seems like a reasonable choice. He pouts his lower lip in approval, continuing down the cereal aisle as Louis throws in box after box. "Your turn."

And it goes back and forth like that for the remainder of the shopping trip. At checkout Harry learns that Louis' favorite movie is _Grease,_ as they trudge to the elevator with their groceries he learns that Louis loves The Fray. While trying to organize the cupboards he learns Louis can play piano ("My talents do extend past baking delicious toaster waffles, Harold.") and has four little sisters.

They're on question number 15 when Harry tells Louis that he's about to start studying business in Uni even though he wants to be a photographer.

"My... _family_ think it's a bit impractical, so I do it on the side otherwise they'd never have sent me here."

“I think it's pretty cool," Louis nods, his eyes staying glued to the television. "Shouldn't let someone else tell you what to do though, you know? Fuck business, if you like takin' photos then do that."

And Harry wishes the people paying his tuition were as accepting as Louis. He makes a mental note of his roommate's open-mindedness, hoping it ranges to other subjects.

"What about you? You going to school?" He shifts sideways, ignoring the television completely.

Louis follows his actions, the confidence in his voice seeping away as he says his next words. "Well- not really, no. Don't really have the money and uh, don't really have a plan either. Kinda just going along, getting by." 

“That’s.” It’s _different_ , for Harry, would be pretty much unheard of in his house that's been moulded to be doctor for a daughter, businessman for a son. “That sounds nice. Spontaneous. I like it.” He thinks maybe Question Number 15 is going to be the last question, with the awkward way the silence hangs between them.

He clears his throat, mumbles something about going for a shower and unpacking the last of his things, thinking that this day could’ve gone worse in a myriad of ways. He’s grateful that it didn’t, and he’s counting his lucky stars that it stays that way.

-

As much as he hates to admit it, Louis does forget about Eleanor over the course of a week. It’s nothing major really, just that he’s called his mum, texted all of his sisters and a few of his mates, but hasn’t said much of anything to his own _girlfriend_.

He blames it on the fact that he’s been distracted with getting into the swing of his new workplace and trying to get to know Harry a bit better. With that in mind, he figures he’s done a lot in a short amount of time honestly, pushing the Eleanor dilemma aside for a moment to bask in self achievement. He'll call her soon enough.

The sun’s set by the time Louis gets home from his long shift on Friday. There were too many large groups to count that came in to eat at the restaurant which means that him, Zayn, and all the other poor waiters and waitresses had to double their efforts to keep up with all the orders. Luckily him and Zayn got assigned tables beside each other so they were able to help each other out when needed, but in the end Louis still has sore arms and is greatly due for a long massage followed by an uninterrupted sleep.

As he walks through the door to the shared flat, the smell of pasta sauce immediately takes over his senses. He kicks his shoes off by the door, pulls the bow tie from around his neck, and shrugs off his shiny black vest before reaching the kitchen area where the pasta mystery is solved.

Harry stands in front of the stove, swaying his hips to the beat of a song playing from the radio while he stirs something in a large pot. With the way he's standing, there's no way he would've noticed Louis come in. It’s amusing seeing Harry so carefree without the knowledge that Louis is watching him, so Louis decides to sit back for a second, enjoy the free show while it's being put on. 

Eventually Harry starts singing along to what Louis now recognizes as that horrid "Bang Bang" song that he constantly hears on the radio. He hits the notes with ease though, only sounding ridiculous when he tries to hit the notes too high for any normal person to achieve. That’s when Louis decides he should make himself known in the situation, ending the scene, as entertaining as it is.

He slowly steps over to Harry who is now pouring the sauce into a large baking dish. Louis' movements are soundless, being drowned out by the next song, and he completely uses it to his advantage. 

When Harry takes a second to fix his hair back in place, Louis wraps an arm around the boy’s chest and places a hand right over his left pec. It’s an action that wasn’t really thought through, just sort of happens without Louis’ consent.

It startles himself as much as it startles Harry, both of them jumping in place. Louis awkwardly moves his hand back down to rest at his side meanwhile Harry whips his head around, green eyes wide in shock. 

“Oh, hi,” Harry says quietly as the panic quickly seeps away. “What’re you doing?”

_You know, just grabbing your boob_ , is what Louis’ brain first thinks of. Is that even what he did anyways? Do males even have _boobs_? God, this is causing him too much internal confusion. 

“Did you just grab my boob?" 

Well, if _Harry_ put it that way, then...

"Yes, a nice palm full I must say," Louis tries to joke, desperate to brush away the awkwardness he feels now. It apparently works because Harry let's out a small cackle before turning around to finish working with the food. It loosens Louis up well. "So you finally got sick of pot noodles and microwave dinners then?"

Harry hums an agreement and Louis swears he can tell that he's grinning even though he's turned the opposite way. 

Louis moves towards an empty counter now, which happens to be the island, and hops on top of it. His hands automatically reach up to undo a few of the top half of the buttons on his shirt to maximize his comfort while he bothers Harry.

"What're you making then?" Louis asks, kicking his bare feet against the cupboards below him.

"Lasagna," he chirps. He's a bird now, then. "Figured your stomach could use something other than processed food and _grease._ "

"That's my diet, Harry!" Louis exclaims. "They do wonders for my body and skin; not a zit to be seen! True miracle workers I tell ya."

Harry gives Louis a look that can only be described as 'envious and slightly confused frog.'

"If you insist." He puts the dish in the oven and steps back, leaning against the kitchen island with a smirk on his lips. "So. What'd you get up to today that you feel the express need to be shirtless in my kitchen? Severe health violation, I think."

Louis snorts then looks down at himself, twisting his mouth in an understandable way when he sees half of his chest on display. "Being a waiter is hard work, and wearing a fucking busboy outfit doesn't help anything. Pardon me for being too provocative in _your_ kitchen."

Harry puts his hands up in defeat. “My sincerest apologies. Though I’m sure your mum wouldn’t approve of that foul _language_ you’ve brought into this household." He turns up his nose, the smile he’s trying to repress giving up his charade.

The banter comes as easy as it would with an old friend. The pace at which they're building up a strong bond is unprecedented, like nothing Louis has ever experienced before. Even with Zayn they butted heads a lot before falling into a friendship, but with Harry it all just sort of happens with no bumps.

"Maybe my mum's the one I get my language from," Louis responds smartly. "She wouldn't care anyways. Unless I swore in front of my sisters, then she'd probably hit me with a spatula."

"Speaking of mums," Harry muses, "I spoke to mine today. She said to tell you ‘hi’. Bit bland, but. Hi!"

"Hi Harry's mum!" He yells it obnoxiously loud as if she can hear him and it's enough to get Harry to crack a smile yet again. 

Harry lets a giggle slip after a moment of silence, Louis' deadpan face seemingly humorous.

"So," Harry waggles his eyebrows, "Have you spoken to _anyone,_ lately? If you know what I mean?"

It takes a second for Louis to catch on. He turns over a few thoughts before realizing who Harry is referring to.

"Oh, I told you about Eleanor already then?" Harry nods in assurance. It must have slipped out during one of their many ice-breaking games. "Right. Well. I haven't really spoken to her since I left- which sounds bad, I know, but I've just been _busy_. Work and unpacking and getting settled. It's reasonable to forget to catch up with one or two people, right?"

Harry strokes his chin. "I mean," he shrugs, "Unless you're gonna get your arse kicked for it, I suppose not." It's a fair point.

The thing is he probably will though. Eleanor is a sweet girl, raised by good parents, knows her manners. She's also dating Louis though, so she knows what game she's playing with his personality and whatnot. All around there's a half chance that he will in fact get his arse kicked.

"Thanks for the wise words, Confucius," Louis says with a sarcastic tone.

Harry rolls his eyes just as the oven dings. “Any time.”

-

Dinner goes spectacularly. It’s the first time they’ve had a proper meal and eaten it at what can barely be considered a dining room table. Louis thanks Harry repeatedly through large mouthfuls of cheesy lasagna and tries not to laugh at all of Harry’s various disgusted faces.

He calls Eleanor too. They catch up, exchange information about what’s happening, where each of them are at the moment. She tells him about how her classes are separated just enough for her to take naps during the day and how there’s a Starbucks on campus that’s right below her dorms. 

He nods along, hums in approval when needed, and throws in snide comments to make her laugh. It’s as great as it could go, honestly, and when they finally press end with final _‘love you’_ s and _‘bye sweetheart’_ s, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off of his chest. 

_He’s fucking got this._ All he’s got to do is keep reminding himself that and maybe the odd, building tightness in his stomach will go away in time. All he can do is hope.

-

Someone’s poking Harry’s face.

“Harry.”

“Harry.”

“Harold.”

“CURLY, WAKE UP.”

The shout is much more effective, causing Harry to sit up fast and headbutt Louis directly in his face. He hears a faint “Ow, _fuck_ ,” before there’s a drip of liquid on his bare chest.

He opens his eyes to a grim faced Louis who’s attempting to stem the flow of blood with his hand.

“Well don’t bleed all over me!” he whines, trying to push Louis off. The boy’s an idiot at the worst of times, he’s come to find.

“Sorry I can’t fucking control my bloody nose bleeding,” Louis snaps then groans. “See now I can’t even talk properly cos you’ve gone and knocked your hard head into mine. Just _help me_ Harry.”

“Can’t very well do much while you’re sat on me, can I?” 

It takes Harry a moment but he finally takes in Louis’ appearance. He’s wearing a suit, like a real suit, with a tie and an expensive looking coat and… his hair? It’s different. Weirdly different. It makes him look five years older and fifty five times hotter- _okay then,_ early morning gay thoughts about your straight roommate.

“What’s up with your hair?” he asks eloquently as Louis clambers off him.

"It's a more mature look," Louis states proudly, voice a bit muffled and pinched due to his nose issue. "Pushed back. Fancy."

He doesn’t think it through, but, “You look like a dad.”

"Please refrain from including me in your sexual fantasies so early on, Harold."

Harry rolls his eyes as they make it into the bathroom, Louis trying to blindly fumble around for a towel or a tissue. Harry watches him struggle for a moment, finding it funnier than he should, probably, until Louis gives him a Death Glare that trumps all before it. It’s very inspiring.

“Here,” he says, laughing. He wets a flannel and hands it to Louis. Very roommate-y of him, he thinks.

Louis hops up onto the countertop. "No, you know what, this is your mess, you clean it up," he frowns, crossing his arms like a stubborn child. 

Harry rushes to catch the blood before it drips off of his chin and onto his suit, the _child._ He's just sitting there, arms folded, ankles crossed, chin up in the air.

"Christ," he mutters, kneeing Louis' legs apart so he can get closer, "Your poor mum, you must've been a _nightmare._ "

Louis doesn't seem to want to justify the comment with a response, just 'hmph's disapprovingly and turns his nose further away from Harry's already difficult reach.

Harry gets fed up after about three seconds, gripping Louis' chin and forcing them to make eye contact.

"There," Harry nods in approval, "Much better." He presses the cloth to Louis' nose tightly, pinching the bridge, desperately trying not to laugh. He can't help it though, the giggle that tumbles off his tongue without his permission.

Louis picks up a foot and kicks him sharply in the bum. It catches Harry off guard (and it fucking _hurts_ ) and he goes stumbling forward. He barely manages to keep Louis from bleeding all over the place again, and is scarcely able to save himself from knocking into Louis, blindly grasping the boy's thigh.

His first thought that's fueled by the tight grip he's trying to regain his balance with, is that Louis has very firm thighs. His second fleeting thought that comes rushing to the forefront of his mind on its own volition is that he would very much like to leave marks all over them.

He almost misses Louis' poorly stifled gasp, and he pretends to. His palm starts to sweat, unfortunately, but he plays it _cool._ Harry can be cool.

"Why’re you such a menace?"

Louis laughs, and, although it seems forced, Harry takes it as a good sign. It's decent omen, at the very least, that things don’t have to be awkward.

"Just- just fix my nose, yeah?" Louis stilts out. He gives a tight smile but his eyes seem panicked.

Harry smirks to distract from his failure to remove his hand from the aforementioned thigh. “M’not a wizard, can’t just magically heal it.” 

Louis doesn’t have a retort, settling for avoiding all eye contact with Harry until the bleeding has just about stopped.

Harry ignores the blush on Louis’ cheeks for both of their sakes. “What the _fuck_ were you waking me up for, anyway?” His voice echoes in the bathroom.

"I wanted your opinion on my outfit for this luncheon because I'm not a very fashionable person and you seem like you are," Louis responds simply, his voice coming back from the far away place it was before.

Harry considers the prospect of the story, the possibility of it being true. He leans against the opposite wall, letting Louis hold the cloth for himself. "Says the man who made fun of my headscarves. You want food."

Louis looks impressed at the fact that Harry's learned his lies so quickly. Which, Harry’s a fast learner, so he doesn’t say anything when Louis pouts that his plan had gone awry, just wets another spare cloth for him and slips down the kitchen to make Louis eggs on toast, still feeling the ghost of Louis’ thigh under his palm.

-

It’s about a week later when Louis is awoken from a deep, satisfying sleep due to a a nudging at his shoulder. His body feels like it’s moving on waves, like he’s floating but he forces himself to think coherently when he hears whispering from above him.

“Louis,” he hears faintly. He just groans in response. “Looouuuis are you awake?”

“No,” he manages through a deep sigh. 

Somehow he manages to get his eyes open which is much easier without morning light shining straight at him. Must still be night time, then. Beside him stands Harry, wrapped up in a large blanket and staring down at him worriedly and with eyes that Louis thinks might be glossed over with tears. 

“Do you think I could-” Harry starts before he’s cut off by a loud clang of thunder that sounds like two thousand metal cooking utensils just fell down at the same time. He whimpers quietly and sucks his lip into his mouth, chewing on it vehemently. “Can I sleep with you?”

If it wasn’t some odd hour of the night and if Louis wasn’t so damned tired he might have made some inappropriate joke about the way Harry phrased the statement, but since it _is_ the middle of the night and he _is_ extremely tired, he doesn’t. Instead he smiles sadly at Harry, all lazy and lopsided.

“Yeah, course,” he says. Harry seems instantly grateful as he pads around to the other side of the bed and sits down, carefully curling up in his blanket over the comforter. “You can get under the sheets, y’know. I don’t care.”

The look on Harry’s face shows his wariness. Nevertheless, he maneuvers himself into a position long enough to yank the covers out from underneath him and tuck himself under them. There’s about a foot of space between their bodies, the sides of their leg brushing under the warm sheets. Louis tries not to think about it. It doesn’t really work.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Harry croaks out quietly. “I just— storms. I don’t like them.”

“I see,” Louis laughs, turning over to face the boy properly. The wind is howling through the tiny cracks in the room’s window while the rain pelts at the foggy glass. "No shame in being scared, you know."

Another clap sounds overhead and Harry winces, more tears threatening to spill as he tries to, like, melt into the covers. 

"I'm not _scared_ ," his flinch at the next one betrays his words, "Just- not fond."

"Don't worry, I never used to like them either. Still don't really, but they don't bother me enough to disrupt my sleep anymore."

"How'd you get over them?" Harry asks it like a child asking their mum for another sweet. He's ridiculously innocent at the moment and Louis doesn't know what he feels about that or why he feels anything at all.

"Sleeping with my mum or sisters helped sometimes, just knowing that I wasn't alone," Louis answers thoughtfully. "I think what got me to overcome the fear though was turning them into something less frightening. I used to say that the thunder was Angels bowling and that lightning was fireworks for when they got a strike. The rain was obviously them pissing because what's less frightening than a bit of wee, you know?"

Harry cackles next to him, the boisterous sound cutting through the otherwise dull silence of the room. He doesn't even throw a hand up to his mouth like he usually does, as if he could ever push it back in. He just let's it sit this time, looks at Louis with dark eyes that faintly catch a bit of moonlight.

"What's the wind coming through the cracks in the window then?" Harry challenges with a grin.

"Hmm," Louis starts, pretending to look deep in thought. "Werewolves. Definitely werewolves."

"Werewolves are scary though," Harry points out.

"Nah, they're nice so long as you aren't a vampire and don't try to shoot them with wolfsbane arrows," Louis clarifies.

By this point Harry's tears have dried reasonably, only remaining as faint painted streaks across his cheeks. His eyes are still a bit red and puffy but it's nothing that won't fade with some sleep.

"Thanks, Lou," Harry says quietly. Their eyes meet and for a split second there's a feeling in Louis like someone shot him with a miniature arrow except- Well, it doesn't hurt. It's more of a dull, pleasant pain that has him wanting more each time it randomly appears during their secretive conversations or quick physical exchanges, like hugs or the time Harry rested a burning hand on the inside of Louis' thigh. "For this and stuff. Means a lot that you didn't just, like, laugh at me and flip me off."

Now it's Louis' turn to laugh at the ridiculousness of the words. "You thought I'd do that? Really?"

"Well, no," Harry says,"but I wasn't expecting you to take me in with loving arms. Just maybe that you'd talk to me for a bit then send me back on my way."

"Care too much to do that, Curly. Don't think I could live with myself if I did something so cruel," he smiles widely. At the same time, he reaches a hand out instinctively to push a few stray curls up that are falling into Harry's eyes. It's what he used to do with his sisters when they were in this same situation so, yes, obviously it's just accidental brotherly-type instinct. Nothing more to it. "Go to sleep now, yeah?"

Harry looks at him with a face, an expression of fond that Louis can't really describe. It's not the way Eleanor looks at him or vice versa, it's more special, more exclusive.

"Alright," Harry nods before letting out a deep breath, matching the roar of another jolt of thunder. "Goodnight, Lou."

"Night, Haz," Louis smiles at him before flipping onto his back and pulling the covers tightly around him.

They're the last words spoken before the storm outside takes control of the airwaves. There's just silence and heat between them, feelings and care that are big enough to be tangible. It's about thirty restless minutes later, just as Louis decides it's time for him to match Harry's pattern of sleep, that there's shifting beside him. Harry's long body moves closer and tucks beside his and then a strong arm wraps across his chest and rests gently at his side, pulling him closer.

It's fine. Really. There's nothing wrong with Harry cuddling him unconsciously because you can't control things you do in your sleep. There's no reason for Louis to panic, so with that mindset, he relaxes his muscles that he hadn't known even tightened and revels in the feeling of warmth and security.

"Go t'sleep, Lou," a voice mumbles into his shoulder and. Well. Restless nights are uncontrollable too.

-

Harry's on his third or fourth or fifteenth cup of coffee that night when there's a soft knock on his bedroom door. He's pretty sure his eyes are two seconds away from burning right out of his head, but there's still four pages of notes and about two dozen flash cards waiting to be written, and they're most definitely not going to write themselves. Maybe they will. Probably not. He's pretty sure. He also hasn't slept in 36 hours. 

_Healthy,_ he thinks bitterly, another knock startling him from falling right the fuck asleep.

“Come in,” he grumbles. Though it sounds like more of a strangled groan and well, Louis probably gets the gist.

“Haz, what,” he flicks on the light that Harry hadn’t even realized was out, “What’re you doing in the dark? Christ, you look like a proper mess. Walking dead.”

Harry makes another subhuman sound shielding his eyes from the actual _sun_.

“Brought you some tea. Figured you could use something other than a triple espresso. Gonna have a heart attack.”

Louis shuffles over, the promised mug in hand. He slips places it on Harry’s desk and slips his textbook from right under his heavy head, tangling a soothing hand in his curls at the noise of protest. Harry doesn’t have it in him to even wonder why he’s protesting against the removal of the cause of his impending death.

Harry mumbles something along the lines of “you’re my favorite human,” snuffling into his arm, barely aware of anything besides the hand scratching at his neck. It’s comforting, feels like what his mother does when he can’t sleep, when he’s sick. It feels like home, for the first time since he moved to London, and he falls asleep just like that.

-

Harry wakes up in his bed, fully clothed, with tea all over his shirt. He squints against the daylight and- oh God, he’s been _blinded_. He doesn’t deserve this. 

He hears a loud clang come from the front of the flat that startles his eyes open. He feels his pupils dilate too quickly as he sits up. He’s going to have to get up eventually, so after hearing a string of _fuck_ ’s come from what he assumes to be the kitchen, he makes the executive decision to investigate.

“Lou?”

“In here! Fucking _shit_.” Harry rounds the corner to the kitchen and finds who he _thinks_ is his roommate, albeit slightly- no- _completely_ covered in flour and batter and generally the entire contents of their cupboards. He’s cradling one hand to his chest, trying to turn off the burners on the stove with the other.

“What are you-”

Louis cuts him off with a frustrated groan. “Will you please _help?_ ”

Harry rolls his eyes and shuts everything off easily, peering into the single pan that’s on the stovetop. There appears to be a burnt lump of _something_ , and judging by the state of the kitchen and the barely visible pancake mix box on the kitchen island, Louis was trying to make breakfast.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Louis moving to run his hand under the faucet.

“Hey,” Harry dives to grab his wrist, “No, what are you doing?”

Louis gives him a look. “Cold water? It fucking _burns_.”

“It’ll scar.” He turns the tap a so it’s in between hot and cold, tests it on his own skin. “Cool water.”

Louis just snorts, hastily sticks his hand under the water. “Thanks, nurse.” He hums to himself. “You think I’d know that.”

Harry rolls his eyes for the second time that morning. Living with Louis has it’s detriments. “How _did_ you burn yourself, anyway?”

Louis mumbles something as he wets the dish towel that was hanging over the edge of the sink.

“Sorry?”

“Was trying to make breakfast, alright? You were like, dead, last night. Wanted to do something nice for you like you always do for me.”

Louis’s blushing by the time he’s finished, a dusting of pink climbing up his freshly shaven cheekbones.

It takes Harry a moment to process, mostly because he doesn’t remember being “like, dead” and partly because Louis _never_ cooks. Even the one time Harry’s asked him to because he was bedridden and actually did feel dead. (Only one time, because Harry learned after the so-called Grilled Cheese Incident that Louis should never touch anything that has the ability to be burned.) Another part of him is positively melting under the sentiment, knowing how much it probably took stone cold, sarcastic Louis to drag himself out of bed before noon and cook something for his completely able roommate that he’s known for a little over three months.

“Did-” It comes back to him then, Louis bringing him tea, collapsing at his desk. “Did you put me in my bed last night?”

Louis doesn’t answer, just nods as he assesses the damage to his hand. 

Harry sort of just fond overloads, letting out a long _aww_ as he pulls Louis into a tight hug. Louis doesn’t reciprocate, is probably scowling into Harry’s chest.

A muffled “shu’ up” confirms his suspicion. Louis keeps his hands trapped between them, making no move to hug Harry back. It’s a sweet moment, makes Harry’s heart swell more than it should that usually non-affectionate Louis doesn’t push away. 

"Thank you," Harry says into the still silence. "Haven't had many friends who would've even thought to do that for me."

“Well,” Louis pulls back with scrunched eyebrows, “It’s the least I could do for putting up with my shit, y’know? Didn’t really know who else to express my… _gratitude_. Without just saying it.”

Harry thinks that’s a bit too cute for his heart to handle, so he gives Louis one last tight squeeze and backs off. He looks at him dead in the eye, wants him to know that it means more than everything that he would even _try_ to give back, because Harry loves doing things for people whether they’re going to do something for him or not. It’s just the way he is, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words for Louis to understand.

He smiles at Louis, a closed mouth dimpled smile that Louis calls his frog face.

“You’re a really good flatmate, did you know?” The blunt honesty is so worth the coloring that returns to Louis’ cheeks. “I don’t care about the messes and the cooking, honestly. You’re really good company and you’re never rude and you fucking _burnt_ yourself trying to make me… what were you trying to make anyway?”

Louis stares down at his hand. “Pancakes,” he mumbles.

Harry loves pancakes. He doesn’t say so, just laughs softly and reaches a hand out. “C’mon, let’s go get that wrapped up or something. Brought Mum’s first aid kit and haven’t even cracked it open yet. Would be a shame if I didn’t in a time like this.”

Louis’ answering smile is enough to have Harry’s stomach tumbling in delight. He thinks he’d like to see Louis smile like that all the time.

“Yeah, alright.”

-

Harry has learned to expect many things upon entering his flat in the last five months. He’s walked in on Louis and Zayn in various forms of dress and undress shouting at the telly, as well as a lone Louis doing the same. He’s walked in on Louis gawking at a computer screen or giggling endearingly at it. However, the most memorable so far has been finding a crumb covered Louis, perceptibly asleep with a half eaten pizza perched upon his chest. The various forms of Louis that Harry has encountered over the months upon returning home from uni every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday did not leave him prepared for the Louis that’s waiting for him on one seemingly quiet Friday afternoon.

“Louis?” It’s standard, calling Louis name, more of a reflex than anything. “Lou, you home?” Of course he’s home, he’s always home at this time on this day. 

Except, he’s not on the sofa like usual.

There’s no greeting hug, no call from the kitchen or the toilet, and no sign of Louis. Harry hopes he isn’t dead.

He ventures further into the flat, dropping the evidence of the day in a trail along the way. It’s not until he reaches the door to his own bedroom and hears a deadly sounding cough that it clicks.

Louis is sick.

Louis is sick, and not the cool kind. It’s the _I’m choking up a lung in the next room_ kind of ill that isn’t good. The sound that’s coming from Louis makes Harry’s own throat twinge in sympathy, and Harry’s only hope as he turns the doorknob to Louis’ room is that he’s not contagious.

“Lou?” He hears him before he sees him, and even when he does, the absolute broken state of him confirms his suspicions.

“Get out,” Louis croaks weakly, “M’gonna get you sick.”

Harry just laughs, can’t believe his ears. “I’ll be fine. Christ, look at you.” He sits down on the bed next to Louis, brushes his fingers across the boy’s burning forehead. “D’you need anything? Have you eaten?”

Louis scoffs, irritating his throat and sending him into another coughing fit. “Thanks, mother hen, but I’m quite alright.”

“You sound like you’ve swallowed a glass of… glass.” 

Louis’ stomach chooses just then to grumble to further prove Harry’s point. “Creative,” he mumbles, burrowing into the blankets and turning his back to Harry. 

 

So Harry does the only thing he can do; Harry runs to the store and buys all the fruit they don’t have, several packages of soup, and an ice pack. He returns before Louis suspects anything, finishes making a bowl of soup just before Louis starts calling his name.

“I’m coming you needy brat.” He’s carrying the tray he’s put the soup and tea on, ironically. “You better eat this willingly because I’m not opposed to force feeding you.”

Louis sits up petulantly, looking as though he’ll cross his arms and pout without a second thought. He accepts the tray somewhat gratefully and sniffles. Then he sneezes. And shoot Harry dead if it’s not the most endearing thing he’s ever seen.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” Louis looks up at him. “What’re you smiling at?”

Harry shrugs, the words out of his mouth before he can think twice about it. “You’re adorable.” 

Louis’s in the middle of sipping his tea when Harry says it, so he scoffs, this time without any violent coughing. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Harry, tilts his head at him and laughs softly. Harry would give anything to know what he’s thinking, just a glimpse into his mind, anything to explain the fond look he’s giving Harry when he’s got a _girlfriend_ for God’s sakes. Harry’s crossed a line, he thinks.

“Thanks,” Louis says, looks back down at his untouched soup, “Again. For this, too. You’re the best flat mate a bloke could ask for, honestly. Possibly better. Couldn’t have dreamed you up if I tried.”

Harry’s heart thuds in his chest, suddenly aware that it’s not so much the situation as it is _Louis_ making him blush.

“Suppose I am a bit of an anomaly, aren’t I.” It isn’t a question, they both know the answer.

Louis takes a spoonful of soup into his mouth, swallowing in a way that Harry has to pointedly ignore the jump of Louis’ Adam’s apple. 

“That you are, Harry Styles,” he says, pointing his spoon at Harry, voice still raspy, “That you are.”

And then he winks, he fucking _winks_. It’s all very misleading. Harry might be having a heart attack. So he gets up before his brain has a chance to catch on to the racing of his heart and sweaty palms.

“If you need anything, Lou, you know where to find me.”

It’s not his best moment, slinking awkwardly out of Louis’ room as the sick boy shoots him a confused look. 

He’s already halfway into the hallway when hears a weak, “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry thinks it’s safe to say there’s been a bit of a shift of something. He _is_ staring a blank wall, seeing dots appear in his vision. Then he realizes he’s been holding his breath, replaying the last five minutes- the last five _months_ \- over in his head. He collapses backwards in his bed, falling asleep just like that, still fully clothed, thinking that now he’s absolutely _fucked._

-

Louis is fucked.

He doesn’t know how it happened, how he managed to gain the nerves to get himself to do it, but he broke up with Eleanor. It happened the day after Louis got sick and his general exhausting pain may have softened the blow a bit when Eleanor told him off for being such a lousy partner and threw him a select choice of dirty curse words. Of course, all in all he knows the reasons _why_ he broke it off with her all too well. They’re also why he’s utterly and royaly fucked.

Since he’s been living with Harry, a lot of things have come to his attention. One being that he most definitely is interested in guys and another that he’s fully head over heels falling for his flatmate. They fall into the same category, but they’re drastic enough things to be named as their own.

Every time Harry does something sweet or caring for Louis, his heart races too fast to be normal gratitude. Each day that Harry lets his hair fall into his face in loose waves, lounging around the flat in frilly aprons and fuzzy socks, Louis gets a warm feeling in his chest. In turn, every time Louis does something for Harry he feels accomplished, like this is what he’s meant to be doing all the time and not just in a platonic, friendly way. 

Needless to say, Louis is almost one hundred percent, dead certain that he’s a little bit in love with Harry and it's terrifying.

The thought hits him while he’s sharing a joint in Zayn’s flat one day. They're both comfortably sitting practically cuddled on the floor against the front of his couch. A rolled sheet of grainy substance is pressed between Louis' lips, the smoke from it clearing things up in his head.

"Do you think I should tell Harry that I'm in love with him?" He asks casually, his eyes cast to his knees.

Zayn glances over with a curious expression. "You're gay?"

It hits him then that he accidentally skipped that part. He conveniently left out that bit of information before letting it slip who the one that's changed his entire life is.

"Maybe," he says quietly. "I don't know. I like Harry, I like guys, but I don't know about girls. I'm, like, straddling the border, y'know?"

Zayn nods as if it makes logical sense which Louis is sure it doesn't. "Alright. So tell him then."

"Really?" He passes the joint to Zayn and watches carefully as he purses his lips and his cheekbones are put on display. 

"Yes."

"Okay." And really, that's that.

-

The next day Louis makes a plan. It’s nothing extravagant, not thought out as a complicated scheme or anything of the sorts. It’s more of a plan to follow so that his nerves don’t shrivel away before he gets the chance to actually tell Harry anything. 

He tells Harry to meet him at a small local cafe. It’s not too intimidating and lonely yet not too out in the open and public. He may be brave, but Louis isn’t brave enough to go spreading around his new sexuality yet, strangers or not.

When he arrives, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his old grey hoodie, his stomach is in a whirlpool. Maybe he should be more excited about this whole thing. Or maybe the nervousness is typical. Louis wouldn’t know because obviously he’s never gone through this kind of thing before sadly. All he knows for sure is that he could throw up at any moment and he’s one second-thought away from turning right back around and fleeing to Zayn to cry and smoke away his troubles.

Carefully he steps inside and instantly spots Harry sitting at a small table in the back corner. He’s got his shoulders hunched over (a bad habit that Louis has tried to coax him away from) and he’s scrunching his face down at something on his phone. It makes the whole thing less scary, Louis thinks, with Harry being his normal endearing self. He dare say that Harry’s displaying the reason’s that Louis is- well, he’s in love with Harry. No need to be afraid of admitting it to himself at this point when he’s actually about to say it to the other end of his desires.

He sits himself down in the chair across from Harry and the other boy looks up instantly. 

“I’m anxiously waiting to find out why you wanted to meet me here,” Harry grins at him, dimple and all.

“Ah, yeah,” Louis laughs quietly. “Bit complicated really. Or, not really. It is for me.”

Harry’s expression changes to a more concerned one now. “Are you okay? Do you need, like, help with something? You know that you can tell me anything, yeah?”

“No, yeah, I know I can tell you stuff but I’m not in trouble. I don’t need help,” he assures Harry, hopefully soothing Harry some if the rise of his shoulders is anything to go by. “I do need to tell you something though.”

The thing is, Louis knows Harry doesn't want to pressure him. Of course he has no idea what Louis has to say, but no matter why he's thinking it could be, Harry would never want to make him feel uncomfortable. So they sit in silence with Harry eyeing him carefully and nudging his foot in silent moral support under the table.

"The thing is," Louis starts. He's not sure where he's going with this. He takes a second to let out a sigh and then he laughs because it's ridiculous really. This shouldn't be that big of a deal, should it. Hell, he doesn't even know. "The thing is I think I'm maybe a little in love with you."

Whatever Harry was expecting, this seems to surpass his expectations. Whether it's a good thing or not is still difficult to tell so Louis sits back with slumped shoulders and a bitten raw lip waiting for a response. He gets it about a minute later.

"Thank God," Harry says and then laughs himself. "Do you know how bad unrequited love is? Especially when you know the guy you're pining over has a _girlfriend_? Honestly, Louis, you could've told me this sooner without dragging us here. Every second you waited was another piece of my heart chipping away and-"

It's at this moment that Louis does something he never believed himself capable of. Spontaneity and pure heart-filled passion flood through him and force him to stand from his seat. lean out across the table, and pull Harry's moving lips into his own. They feel smooth and full, just how Louis imagined they would in the daydreams that always wander away from him. 

Harry let's out a quiet hum of surprise but doesn't take long to reciprocate the movements. His lips pull into a smile and then he places two large hands on each of Louis' cheeks, cradling his face. It hurts a bit to rest his weight on his elbows, pressing them into the hard wood of the table like this, but it feels worth it. He'd be willing to do anything just to let this moment last.

Finally a minute later, they seem to have had enough of each other and pull back simultaneously. "Oh shut up you twat, you sound like a bleeding love poem," Louis scoffs with a grin once he catches his breath.. The admission had been surprisingly easy, the kiss and the aftermath are turning out to go even better.

"I try my best. But, this is big you know. I mean— are you sure you're mentally stable? This isn't a hallucination?" 

"Not a hallucination sadly," Louis smiles teasingly.

"Okay. Well in that case, I think I maybe kind of love you too." Harry smiles at him all white teeth and deep dimpled and it's wonderful. Unlike all of the other times, this one feels different. It feels monumental. As if it could even feel anything else right now. 

"Really?" Louis asks, feeling his cheeks stretch from how wide his smile is growing.

"Always," Harry nods. 

"Well," Louis laughs quietly and short in disbelief. "You'll always be in my heart then, Harry Styles. With your odd habits and ridiculous hair but unbelievably loving personality."

Harry's practically gleaming at him. "As to you, Lou, with your blunt statements, messiness, and undeniable affectionate persona. It'll be much nicer to let you unconsciously cuddle me and know how you actually feel about it."

"See, I _would_ be stubborn and say that I'm going to stop cuddling you at all now, but," he shrugs. "Love is love."

 


End file.
